


Take a Good Look Around (The Seein' You Remix)

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dubious Consent, First Time, Hell, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Remix, Season/Series 04, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Remix) Dean's not the same person when he comes back from Hell, but Sam's not himself either. Dean is still determined to take care of his brother. He just goes about it a little differently than he used to.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Good Look Around (The Seein' You Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [See you when I see you](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2857) by Osmalic. 



He feels Sam watching him sometimes, when he's in Hell.

Which is crazy, of course. Sam's not here. Sam's right where Dean left him, safe above, alive and breathing and moving on with his life. There's no reason for Dean to feel like Sam's eyes are burning into him from just around the corner.

But he can't shake the sensation.

He feels Sam watching him through every flavor of torture, feels his brother's focus as his body is broken—cut into, beaten, torn apart, fucked—and it's not quite a sanity line (there's no such thing as sanity down here), but it's something.

The inexplicable sensation isn't constant, more like an off-and-on tide of imagined attention: more on than off as the years pass and his tormentors slowly worm their way past his defenses.

He finally breaks in one of those _off_ moment, a period of empty respite from the imagined weight of his brother's gaze. Maybe he wouldn't have broken if Sam had been watching (as if his brother is really watching, and this isn't just some sick coping mechanism in his own head), but he's alone. Just him and Alistair and three other demons Dean couldn't care less about except for how much they're making him hurt.

So he breaks, barely comprehending the fractured apologies and pleas and promises that pour from his own mouth. The demons drop him to the floor and he just keeps begging, too desperate to feel ashamed, until he feels it again: the electric jolt that says Sam is watching him.

And no matter how stubbornly Dean reminds himself there's no way it's real, he can't shake free. All he can say is "I'm sorry"—over and over again.

All he can feel is shame.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

When Dean claws his way out of a coffin and sees a blue sky, he knows he's more monster than anything. There's a deep, inescapable guilt swirling in his guts. The guilt is more pronounced now that he's out, but even in the thick of it—up to his elbows in blood and screams—he could feel it. It felt like Sammy's eyes following his work, watching as Dean learned to tear souls apart.

Watching as Dean learned to love it.

Now there's grass beneath his feet—solid and green and real—and dry air in his lungs. Dean's got memories telling him how to be human, but they're buried so far beneath the smell of sulfur and the laughing waterfalls of blood that Dean just sits down right where he is. He holds perfectly still, cross-legged in the grass, and doesn't move until he can swallow past the memory of brimstone.

When he stands again, he almost feels human.

He could go to Bobby first. Bobby probably won't believe it's really Dean ( _Dean's_ not sure he believes he's really Dean), but his house is close. And maybe he'll have word from Sam: maybe he can help Dean find his brother.

But as Dean crashes an open, uninhabited convenience store in search of food and water, he realizes he doesn't need Bobby's help.

He doesn't know where Sam is. Not exactly. But there's a hopeful tug seated low in his chest, and it feels familiar. It feels like all those times in Hell he knew Sam was watching and tried to tell himself otherwise. Which sounds just as crazy now, but the tug in his chest is urging him East, and Dean knows with inexplicable certainty that he has to follow it.

He knows it will lead him to Sam.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

It's not Sam that answers the door when he knocks, but Dean knows this is the right room.

"How—?" the dark-haired woman says, but Dean is already shoving past her through the door.

"Where is he?" he asks, because the room beyond is empty. "Where is he and who the fuck are you?"

The woman gives him a slow, assessing look. Her thick lips are pressed into a line of willful superiority, like she's _better_ than Dean, and every one of Dean's instincts is screaming at him that she's a threat.

But she's standing there in pajamas, obviously at home in his brother's space, and she couldn't look more harmless if she tried.

"He's picking up burgers," she finally says. "It's been a long day. And you don't need to know who I am."

Dean's about to retort—a snarl of ' _The hell I don't_ ' primed and ready on his tongue—but that's when the door swings open again. Sam shoulders his way inside, and Dean wants to say something to catch his brother's attention, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. The smell of fresh burgers makes his stomach roil, and the woman has gone tense beside him.

Sam's too busy tucking his keys into his pocket, doesn't actually watch where he's going as he steps into the room, and he barely stops before bowling Dean right over in his path. When Sam raises his eyes, the bag of burgers falls instantly from his hands. It hits the floor with a crinkling thud.

"Dean," he whispers.

Dean wants to respond, but he still can't find his voice.

He expects Sam to make a quick move—either hug him or attack him—but instead Sam raises one hand slowly between them. He moves with a terrified caution, an indecipherable hesitance that leaves Dean frozen where he stands and tracking Sam's hand with his eyes.

Sam's palm hovers in front of Dean's face for a long moment, fingers extended and his whole hand tense, like he's scared to close that last inch. Like Dean might vanish if he does.

The air feels electric when Sam finally touches him, fingers warm as Sam breathes a gusty gasp of relief, his eyes going wet.

"It's you," he whispers, tracing a thumb across Dean's cheekbone in a gesture that leaves Dean torn between pressing in closer or jumping away. The two urges cancel each other out, and he finds himself standing perfectly still as Sam says, "I didn't know… but that's why, isn't it? That's why it stopped."

"Why what stopped?" Dean asks, eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"Sam!" the woman interjects, stepping forward like she's got any right to interrupt. "Don't be in idiot, you know that's not Dean. It can't be!"

"It's him," says Sam, and Dean almost believes it himself.

"No," the woman insists. "I can't let you—"

" _Leave_ ," Sam says, eyes flashing dangerously as he turns to face her, though his hand remains a warm, entitled pressure on Dean's face. In his peripheral vision, Dean can see the woman has frozen in place, eyes going wide with hurt betrayal.

She doesn't move for the door.

"Ruby," Sam says, and Dean jolts at the name and the realizations that come with it. "I'm not going to say it again. Get gone, or I will _make_ you leave."

Ruby huffs, irritation to mask the sting of betrayal, and now that he knows, Dean can't believe he didn't recognize her. He doesn't bother to watch as she makes her retreat, as the door slams loud with her ire.

Dean wants to ask his brother why he's playing house with a demon. He wants to ask why Ruby turned tail and followed Sam's orders. He wants to ask what Sam's been up to for the past forty years and why he doesn't look any older than the day Dean left.

But when Sam steps forward and drags Dean into his arms, there's not a single question Dean can bring himself to ask. He just wraps his arms around his brother and holds on.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"I was supposed to save you," Sam says later, when they're sitting at the table in the corner and eating the cold and slightly smushed burgers from Sam's takeout bag. Dean doesn't have much appetite, but he eats anyway. It seems to make Sammy feel better.

"It's Hell, Sam," he says. "You're not supposed to save people from Hell."

"But I should have," Sam insists. "It's all I could think about, and there was nothing I could do, and I should have found a way."

Dean decides he needs a shower that night, even though he's pretty sure he'll never actually feel clean again. He hears Sam gasp as he drags his shirt off over his head, and then his brother is so far into his space it makes Dean's head spin. Sam grabs his arm in a tight grip, not threatening but terrified, and Dean follows his brother's gaze down to his own shoulder.

There's a handprint there, seared in red into his flesh, and Dean's not sure how he failed to notice it before. Now that he knows it's there, it stings like a son of a bitch.

"Huh," he says. Kind of wants to scratch at it, but that's probably a bad idea.

"Dean, what is this?" Sam asks, voice raspy and thick with fear.

"I don't know."

"We'll," Sam says with a hard swallow. "We'll fix it. Whatever it is, we'll fix it."

"Okay, Sammy," says Dean. Because he doesn't care much one way or the other—he's so used to hurting that the sting has already faded to a soft buzz in the back of his mind, and what's one more scar?—but if Sam needs to figure it out, Dean doesn't mind.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean doesn't sleep that night, because every time he closes his eyes he gets a full-color playback of the worst of Hell's menu items. The images repeat behind his eyes, bright and ragged, and he tries not to shake too hard. Sam is asleep on the other side of the bed—only one bed in this room—and from the haggard look of him, Dean can tell his brother needs the rest.

"How long was I gone?" he asks the next morning, rolling up the impossibly long sleeves of the flannel he's borrowing from Sam.

"Four months," answers Sam. He says it in a quick, clipped tone. A hurt finality. But Dean can see the running tally in Sam's eyes. He can tell his brother could answer him down to the week, the day, maybe even the hour if he asked.

Dean doesn't ask.

"You want anything for breakfast?" says Sam from the dresser, busy stuffing two duffel bags full of clothes: one dirty laundry and one clean.

"No," says Dean.

He sees Ruby hovering by the ice machine as they load the Impala and climb inside, but she doesn't move to approach. Sam doesn't spare her a glance, and Dean couldn't even swear that his brother knows she's there. He sort of has Sam's undivided attention right now.

It feels disconcertingly familiar.

He's about to climb in the passenger seat when Sam presses the keys into his hand and says, "You drive."

"I… are you sure?"

"Yeah." Sam nods, vigorous and sure. _Too_ sure, Dean realizes, like this is about more than just who drives them out of town. He capitulates with a shrug, because he's confident that there's no way he could forget how to drive his baby, and climbs in behind the wheel.

He watches Ruby disappear in the rearview mirror as he steers out of the lot, and the look on her face is abandoned and hurt as she finally fades into the distance. Dean knows better than to pity a demon, not that he's even sure he remembers what pity feels like.

But her expression speaks of cast-aside devotion, and there's a story there that Dean doesn't know.

"How long have you been working with Ruby?" he asks, and he doesn't even try to keep his voice casual.

"For a couple months," says Sam. He sounds tired. Wrung out and exhausted, like all that sleep he got last night didn't do him any good. "After they took you, I couldn't find a way to get you back. But Ruby said she could help me take out Lilith."

"And you believed her?" Dean asks, incredulous.

"I didn't have anything else to live for."

Dean wants to slam on the brakes, wants to punch his brother in the face, wants to find some anonymous, fleshy target to spend the instant swell of rage on. Instead he swallows past it and presses his lips into a tight line, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Dean," says Sam.

"Don't," Dean snaps. He could tear Sam a new one and explain why he's pissed, but he knows he doesn't have to. The look on his brother's face says Sam already knows.

"How long have you been fucking her?" Dean asks twenty miles later, when he's finally cooled down enough to manage the words.

"You really wanna know?" Sam asks.

Dean shrugs and keeps driving. Part of him couldn't care less—fucking her's no worse than trusting her in the first place. But part of him is desperate to know, and that part of him kind of wants to tear Ruby apart for putting her filthy, demon hands on his brother. Sam deserves better. He deserves nice things and an honest girl and a normal life, and Dean's sacrifice was supposed to give him a shot at all that. He wants to kill Ruby for dragging his brother back down, even as the tiny voice of reason in the back of his head points out Sam probably didn't need the help.

"About a month," says Sam, and this time Dean's pretty sure his brother couldn't pinpoint a more specific timeframe if he tried. "Maybe less. I don't really know."

"Okay," says Dean. "How about _why_?"

"It just sort of happened," says Sam. Dean doesn't need to look at him to know the answer is bullshit.

"Whatever," he mutters, and keeps his eyes on the road.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He finally pulls the Impala in at a motel, late in the day, a tiny roadside place smack in the middle of a whole lot of nowhere. There's a Denny's and some fast food nearby, and the motel sign is a bright, blinding pink. It looks as good as anything else they've passed in the last couple hours. Dean's pretty sure he's supposed to be hungry—they drove through the dinner hour—so it's probably time they stopped.

As far as he knows they've got nowhere else to be, so he checks into a room with two queens before Sam has even opened his eyes from his sleepy slouch against the window. Dean nudges him and drags the duffels inside, and is amazed at how alien the simple routine feels.

Sam leaves the bathroom door open when he ducks in to wash his face, and Dean tucks their gear aside, disconcerted by the sensation that Sam is still watching him, even though he can hear the water running and the splash of Sam patting his face down in the sink.

"What do you want for food?" Dean asks, already reaching for Sam's wallet on the table. "I'll pick us up something down the street."

"No!" Sam yells, and Dean gives him a surprised look. "I mean… I'll go with you. I need to stretch my legs."

"Sure, Sammy," says Dean.

They eat at the Denny's, and by the time he's cleared his plate, Dean's not even sure what he ordered. Sam eats his food in measured movements and doesn't take his eyes off Dean. Dean pretends to ignore the scrutiny.

By the time they return to the room, Ruby is already loitering nearby. She's sitting on the hood of an orange car, all the way across the lot from the Impala, waiting almost impatiently. But she doesn't approach them.

Sam appears oblivious again, but this time Dean suspects it's willful. No way a Winchester misses that obvious a threat when she's sitting on a car that's the bright, gouging color of a construction sign.

"You want first shower?" Sam asks, even though it's hours too early to be getting ready for bed.

"No thanks," says Dean. He ducks out into the parking lot while Sam is showering, digs in the trunk for the stash of Jack he knows he'll find in the wheel well.

"That won't help," comes Ruby's voice from beside him.

"Whatever you say," he mutters, and slams the trunk shut without putting the bottle back in its place.

"It's not you he needs," Ruby says, glaring like the words are supposed to mean something. "It's supposed to be me."

Dean flips her the bird as he goes back inside, and he lays a salt line at the door behind him.

The bathroom door opens on a waft of steam, but Sam doesn't come out. He just stands there in a towel, eyes darting around the room until they settle on Dean, and visible relief settles across Sam's shoulders. Dean thinks maybe some different version of him would rib his brother for the display of codependency. But he's too tired for that, so he sits at the small, ragged table instead and pours himself a plastic cup of liquor. Maybe tonight he'll be able to sleep.

Sam leaves the bathroom door open as he brushes his teeth and gargles, and Dean wonders if he's imagining the way Sam tilts away to avoid looking at the mirror.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam does the same thing the next morning, and shaves in such a hurry that he cuts himself a couple of times. Through the open door of the bathroom Dean's got a clear view of the blood spotting up on his brother's chin. Sam steps back into the main room to do his hair, something Dean's pretty sure he's never seen his brother do without being forcibly evicted by the bathroom's next insistent occupant.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asks.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Nothing, just… never mind."

Sam hands him the keys again outside, shoving Dean towards the driver's side of the car.

Ruby's nowhere to be seen.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Their lives settle back into something like a pattern, the same one they lived before Dean went to Hell, and it feels like a layer of skin that doesn't fit quite right.

Ruby loiters constantly at their periphery; and Sam lets (makes) Dean drive, leaves bathroom doors open whenever he's at the sink, and spends his days flinching away from storefront windows and puddles and blank television screens.

Dean wonders which of them is going insane.

He's pumping gas in the middle of the night, Sam in the bathroom because this may be the last gas station they see between here and Yolo County, when Ruby sneaks up behind him. He hears her gravel-crunch footsteps and catches a glimpse of her in the dark reflection off the car's back window, but she moves like she's expecting to catch him off guard. He turns and quirks an eyebrow at her, slow and uninterested. Already waiting for her to leave.

"You know he's not himself," she says with a sneer. "You know something's not right."

"What do you care?" he asks.

"Maybe I don't."

He puts the nozzle back in place at the pump and closes up.

"Go away, Ruby," he says. "He doesn't seem to give a shit whether you live or die, and I've got a definite preference for 'die.' Why are you still here?"

"It's not his reflection he's scared of," Ruby says, and her face twists unpleasantly. "In case you were wondering."

She disappears in the quick span of a heartbeat, and when he turns around he finds Sam rushing toward him from the building. His brother's face looks flushed, his eyes a little wild, and he doesn't settle until he's standing practically inside Dean's skin, staring hard enough that Dean would be fidgeting if he hadn't already gotten so accustomed to the treatment.

They get back in the car, Sam snatching the passenger seat before Dean can even offer to let him drive.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"What is it with you and mirrors?" Dean asks the next day.

Sam's head snaps up hard and fast, and the eyes he fastens on Dean are bright and wounded. Startle-wide, like he honestly wasn't expecting to be found out.

"Nothing," says Sam. "Why?"

"You've been acting weird," says Dean, and he figures he's justified. Sam must be behaving like a goddamned lunatic if he's bad enough for Dean to pick up on it, because Dean may be a monster, but he's also all too aware of the way reality doesn't quite fit. It's a sleeve that's too tight in the arms, too loose at the elbows, and sometimes he wonders if he even knows Sam anymore—but he knows enough to know that _this_ (whatever it is) isn't normal.

"No offense, Dean, but I don't really think you're in much of a position to be calling me weird." He doesn't say it to be cruel. He says it defensively, and there's no sting in the words.

"It's not just mirrors," Dean presses on undeterred. "It's anything you can see your face in, and a couple things you can't. I can _see_ you, Sam, I know when you're twigged. I just don't understand why, this time."

"I'm fine," Sam insists, and storms into the bathroom in a huff.

Except there's a mirror in there and he's out again in under two minutes, stalking out the front door instead with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean tries drinking to get to sleep, but it doesn't actually help.

So he runs himself ragged instead, and physical exhaustion may not drive the memories away but at least it lets him rest. Nightmares he can handle. He wakes up with violent cravings some mornings—fingers itching for the handle of a scalpel or the butt of a whip—but he's learning fast to stuff those urges back down into the private, denied recesses of his mind.

The nightmares aren't as bad as the memories, and the memories aren't as bad as the guilt that he knows he should be feeling.

Which probably just means he's fucked.

A week after Dean asks Sam about the mirrors, Sam walks down the street without him and comes back to the motel room trashed on cheap liquor. Booze was always Dad's deal, never Sam's, but Dean supposes he doesn't know Sam that well anymore. And anyway, Dean tried it himself a couple of times. Just because it didn't work doesn't leave him in a position to judge.

"You're going to be hurting so much tomorrow," Dean informs his brother, helping him out of his boots and his coat.

"Sorry," Sam murmurs, slurring less than he should considering the way he's barely upright. "I am. 'm sorry, Dean. I couldn't save you, and now 'm all screwed up."

"Calm down, Sasquatch, I'm right here," says Dean. "I don't need saving." He's a goddamned liar, but that's nothing new. He maneuvers Sam down onto one of the beds otherwise fully clothed. Sure, Sam will overheat during the night if he conks out with all those shirts on, but Dean's not feeling particularly generous at the moment.

"Stay," Sam gasps when Dean tries to leave for the bathroom for a glass of water. "Dean! Hav'ta be able to _see_ you."

"Jesus, okay," says Dean. He sits on the side of Sam's bed and grunts surprise when Sam curls around him like an octopus and tries to use him as a pillow.

"Keep thinking it's a trick," Sam whispers. "Trick of the light, gonna disappear if I look away. I'm gonna look in the mirror and realize it's all still fucked and you're not really here at all."

"The hell are you talking about, dude?" Dean asks, shifting so he can lean against the headboard instead of contorting to stay upright in Sam's clutching hold. "Of course I'm really here. You couldn't cling to me like a drunk, mopey barnacle if I weren't really here."

"You were always screaming," Sam says. "Except then you weren't, but you were still _gone_ , and I couldn't touch you."

"God damn it, Sam," Dean murmurs softly, because now his brother is crying. Dean's fingers trace an instinctive pattern through his brother's hair, not sure if the gesture is comforting or if he's just making Sam cry harder. "You know we're going to have to talk about this tomorrow. When you're sober. You know I hate talking, right? "

"Sorry," Sam whispers against his stomach.

When Sam's breathing evens out in sleep, Dean gives a disbelieving sigh and stares at the ceiling.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"So," Dean says the next morning, over a fresh cup of coffee at the place down the street—free wifi, but he made Sam put the computer away, because it's early and they have more important things to discuss. "Mirrors. I hear you don't like 'em. Care to explain?"

"No," Sam mumbles, dropping his head onto the table and hiding his face behind his arms. "My head hurts."

"Here," says Dean, and because he's just that awesome he slides a couple extra strength aspirin across the table. "Take these and man up. Your coffee's getting cold."

Sam does as he's told with grudging movements, swallowing the pills dry and reaching for the cup of coffee at his elbow. Dean watches his brother blink bleary eyes and waits for Sam's attention to settle on him.

"Okay, let's try that again. What's up with you and your reflection?" He actually believes Ruby, that Sam's reflection has nothing to do with it—especially after Sam's cryptic, drunken ramble of the night before—but it still seems like the easiest place to start. "You finally figure out you're not the pretty one? 'Cause that's old news, dude."

"It's not my reflection," Sam says, mouth turning down in an uncomfortable scowl. "It's stuff that's not supposed to be there when you look in the mirror."

Dean breathes in, harsh and sharp, and says, "You seeing things, Sammy?"

"Not anymore," Sam says, shaking his head in hard denial. "Not since you came back."

"And before that?" Dean asks.

Sam looks away and swallows, but carefully doesn't answer.

He looks more vulnerable than Dean can ever remember seeing him (though he's maybe not remembering his time before Hell all that clearly), and it sends an army of protective instincts surging through Dean's blood. Something made his brother hurt, fucked with him while Dean was gone, and whatever it was, all Dean can think about for a moment is how badly he wants to hunt it down and make it bleed.

But he's got no idea what 'it' is, let alone if it's even something that _can_ bleed.

"Sammy," he says, and his own voice sounds ragged in his ears. "Tell me what you saw _before_ I came back."

"You," says Sam without raising his eyes. "I saw you. Everywhere I looked. Mirrors and windows and blank TV screens. At first I thought I was just going nuts. Just hallucinating, you know? Because I wanted to see you so badly. But you were in pain. Every fucking time I saw you those first couple months, you were in pain and screaming and… that's crazy, right? Why would my brain come up with that?"

"Pretty crazy, yeah," says Dean, but he doesn't mean it. He's got no idea how it works—not like Hell broadcasts into the world like a channel on cable or an internet download—but it doesn't sound insane. He felt Sam's eyes on him every goddamned day in the Pit, and he realizes with a doomed certainty that neither one of them is crazy this time.

"It was almost worse when you stopped screaming," says Sam, and Dean's blood chills in his chest.

"How so?" he asks, cautious and quiet.

Sam just shakes his head and won't say more.

"I tried explaining it to Bobby once," Sam says later, as they're leaving the coffee shop. "He didn't get it. Ruby never really understood either. And I didn't have anyone else to tell."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," says Dean, and he means for everything. For leaving, for breaking, for all the things he now knows for a painful fact that Sam watched him do.

Sam just shrugs and climbs into the passenger seat.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

After a couple of weeks with no sign of Ruby, Dean is startled to find her waiting for him on the steps of a dusty public library.

He's alone—managed to convince Sam to wait for him back at the motel—and the look on her face is almost enough to have him reaching for the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. She's burning a glare of hatred straight into him, her arms crossed and eyes flashing hard and bright.

But she doesn't make any threatening moves as he descends the cement steps, just falls into step beside him with that purposeful glower twisting her features.

"Look," says Dean, not bothering to mask the irritation in his voice. "I'm sorry your boyfriend's giving you the cold shoulder and all, but what the hell are you stalking _me_ for?"

Ruby puts on a phony surprised face, exaggerated offense and wide eyes as she says, "Dean, I'm wounded. I'm here to _help_ you." When Dean snorts, she adds, "There's no way Sam's telling you everything."

"He's told me plenty," says Dean, staring stubbornly at the sidewalk beneath his feet.

"He hasn't told you _this_ ," Ruby insists. "His real secret? What he really wants? He probably thinks even I don't know it, but it's not like he's great at playing subtle."

"Get to the point or fuck off," Dean mutters.

"He wants you," says Ruby.

Dean stops walking.

When he finally turns to look at Ruby, she's wearing a victorious smile, cutting and smug. Like the words are meant as an attack—a grenade tossed over enemy lines in a battle she just won.

"You probably don't believe me," she says smugly. "But you don't have to. It doesn't change anything. You have no idea how badly he wants it. How hard he wants to fuck you."

"And you came about this insight how?"

Ruby's smile turns colder, negative forty-two degrees Fahrenheit and dropping, and she says, "Because whenever he fucked me in front of a mirror, he said your name."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean's a bright boy—one thing Hell couldn't torture out of him—so he has no trouble discerning the purpose behind Ruby's malicious revelation.

She wants Sam back, and Dean is in her way. She thinks gossiping about Sam's less than brotherly intentions will scare him off and leave an emotional void for her to step in and refill. And before Hell her plan might have worked. Dean can't say that with any certainty, of course—his head's always been a little twisted around where Sam is involved—but it's possible. Before Hell, Dean might well have turned tail and ditched at the thought of his baby brother touching him.

But that's definitely not his reaction now, and Dean wishes he could be sure Hell is to blame for the idle way he finds himself considering the possibility.

He wishes he could say he wouldn't have wanted this before.

As it is, his thoughts keep drifting to his brother—as they drive, as they eat, as they interview witnesses—day after day, Dean finds himself staring at his brother's hands and wondering what they would feel like holding him down.

Ruby said Sam wants to fuck him hard. Dean is pretty sure he wants that, too.

But wanting it doesn't give Dean any ideas for how to broach the subject, let alone get what he wants. Sam keeps him at a frustrating distance, careful not to touch, in a way that Dean hadn't noticed before his brain started down this path. When Dean tries to move closer, Sam puts the space right back between them. Every moment of eye contact that stretches too long just sends Sam running. Every touch makes him flinch and dodge, a guilty blush smudging his face red.

On the plus side, it's all the confirmation Dean needs that his brother wants this. Winchesters may not be the touchiest breed, but they don't shy away. This is new, and Dean is confident it can only mean one thing.

But Dean's a bright boy, and he also knows he can't just kiss Sam and magically make it happen. Sam won't believe that Dean wants this, and Dean… Dean's impatient.

He wants Sam now.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Opportunity presents itself sooner than he expects.

They take out a demon in Tampa that has some horribly personal things to say—things about Dean and his time in Hell that are probably supposed to reopen old wounds. But Dean's wounds haven't really closed, and the demon's got nothing new to contribute. Dispatching it feels like a simple math equation, exorcism rolling easily off of Dean's tongue. He imagines the syllables singeing the roof of his own mouth, as the demon screams and roils and vanishes into the air.

But Sam apparently doesn't share his sense of calm, and the entire drive back to the motel Dean can feel his brother twitching with manic energy in the passenger seat. He wants to reach out and still Sam's jiggling knee with a touch, but for all he knows the contact will send his brother bolting for the door handle and falling into the street.

By the time they reach the motel, Sam is all but vibrating, and Dean turns a worried look on him as he puts the car in park.

"You okay, dude?" he asks.

"Christ, Dean, how can you be so calm after the things he said?"

"Not like it was new information," Dean points out. "I was there the first time. I already know what they did to me."

Sam makes a hurt sound in the back of his throat, and Dean tries to backpedal. "It's not as bad as it sounds," he says. Or rather, it's every bit as bad as it sounds, but it's _over_. Nothing Dean can do about it now, and it's not like the memories are going anywhere.

"I need a drink," Sam announces abruptly, and gets out of the car in a rush, slamming the door noisily behind him.

"I'll come with you," Dean says, hurrying to follow.

"That's not a good idea," Sam whispers, so softly that Dean can barely hear him.

"Yeah, well. Neither's letting you get wasted by yourself. Like it or not, you've got yourself a chaperone." Because this is the first time Sam has gone near alcohol since the night he fessed up about the mirrors, and Dean wants to be there. Besides, who knows what Sam will do, state he's in. Dean wouldn't put a bar fight past him, and wouldn't _that_ be a dignified way for the FBI to catch up with them.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

When they get to the bar, Sam paces himself but he drinks a lot. Slow shots at irregular intervals, his eyes riveted to Dean the entire time.

Dean orders a beer and drinks it slowly, doing everything he can to rile his brother up. It's been a long time since he bothered to seduce someone—he hasn't really felt like hooking up since Hell. But it's like riding a bicycle, easy skills to call back to the surface, and he smiles a filthy smile as he looks up at Sam through his eyelashes.

Sam ignores him at first. Willfully, maybe, or just too caught up in his own moping, but Dean doesn't let that deter him. He worries his lower lip between his teeth whenever he's not talking, and makes a show of every sip of beer—wrapping his lips around the neck of the bottle and making a contented sound low in his throat.

By the time Sam is a few shots in, Dean can see his brother's eyes heating with want. A quick glance down gives him an eyeful of the outline of Sam's cock tenting his jeans.

Dean smiles and licks his lips, and orders another beer.

Three hours in, he knows they either have to get this show on the road or go home. Dean signals the bartender to cut his brother off, because another couple of shots and Sam will be useless. As it is, Dean is barely holding himself back—and apparently so is Sam, because his brother is leaning closer to him, precarious on his barstool as his center of gravity shifts towards Dean.

Which means it's time to make his play.

Dean counts out a pile of bills and slides them to the bartender, enough to cover their tab and make for a healthy tip. When he hops off his barstool, he stumbles on purpose, plays up the effects of the small handful of beers he drank—he knows there's no way Sam kept count—and steadies himself with a hand high on Sam's thigh.

Sam stiffens in his seat, and Dean doesn't draw back.

"Sorry," he says, feigning imbalance and letting his hand creep higher. "Probably a good thing we walked here."

"Yeah," says Sam, but even though he looks ready to pounce, he holds frozen in place. Dean angles in closer, just right for a kiss if Sam closes the distance, and Sam turns away instead.

Dean stands upright on steady legs and takes a step away, but he's not giving up yet. He's got one more card to play.

"You good for awhile?" he asks, licking his lips and making a show of skimming his gaze across the crowd. "Gonna see if the tall guy by the payphones wants to have some fun."

The words work perfectly, setting Sam off the way Dean has been impatiently awaiting, and suddenly Sam is right in his face, grabbing his arm tightly enough to bruise. His eyes flash furiously, jealous hunger and determined intent darkening his expression, and Dean swallows in anticipation.

"No," Sam says, low and articulate despite the amount of alcohol in his system.

"You got a better suggestion, Sammy?" Dean asks, and grunts in surprise when Sam starts dragging him along towards the back of the bar. There's an employee's-only door in the corner, and Sam barrels right through it, eyes darting around like he doesn't know what he's looking for but he'll know it when he sees it. They move down hallways at random, passing a rattling kitchen and a pile of locked rooms until Sam finds a door that opens under his hands.

He drags Dean inside, and it's a huge walk-in storage room, cases of beer stacked high against three of the four walls, with metal shelves spaced along the other one. Sam shoves Dean back against one of the shelves—it creaks and rattles but doesn't move, apparently bolted to the wall—and crushes him in a possessive kiss.

Dean feels almost claustrophobic, trapped with Sam on all sides, Sam pinning him down, but he can feel Sam's hard-on rubbing against his hip, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be. God he wants this, wants Sam to take it from him, hard and confident, and the bruising pressure of Sam's hands makes Dean groan into the harsh, hungry kiss.

"This how you want it, Dean?" Sam groans, dropping a line of stinging bites along the column of Dean's throat as he works at the fly of Dean's pants.

" _Yes_ ," Dean breathes. He bucks against Sam's hands, probably just making his brother's work more difficult, but he's hard and needy and the pressure is driving him mad.

Sam succeeds somehow at working Dean's jeans and boxers down his hips and then sets two fingers against Dean's mouth. Dean parts his lips and sucks on them, slicking them with his tongue and humming an eager sound, because he knows where those fingers are going.

Sam tilts Dean's head up after that, stares into his eyes as he uses his spit-slick fingers to work Dean open. Dean tries to hold his gaze, but his own eyes drift shut, fractured moans leaking from his throat as Sam teases him, spreads him, fucks him open on one, then two, then three fingers.

When Sam pulls his hand free and spins Dean against the shelves, Dean grabs on and feels the metal shake at the unforgiving impact. There's the sound of a zipper, the sound of Sam spitting into his palm, and then _there_ , Sam's cock filling him up in a slow, steady thrust.

It hurts—burns somewhere deep and secret as Dean's body accommodates the heavy thickness of _Sam_ fucking into him without nearly enough moisture easing the way—but Dean can't be bothered about the pain.

Dean knows pain, and this is so much more than that. This is _Sam_ : Sammy taking care of him, filling him, loving him in the most intimate way. This is Sam touching him the way both of them need, and Dean shoves back against the slow push of his brother's cock, impatient for more.

Sam apparently gets the hint, because he forces his cock the last of the way in with a quick, harsh thrust—stills deep and wide and perfect when he's got no further to go.

"That all you got, Sammy?" Dean teases, and Sam immediately starts moving.

The rhythm is instantly brutal, and Dean rocks in time with each thrust, holding tightly to the cold metal shelf to keep from reaching for Sam. Because Sam's busy right now, his fingers grasping tight, bruising ownership into Dean's hips, and Dean doesn't want to do anything that will slow his brother down. The discomfort (pain) melts quickly into pleasure, especially once Sam changes his angle enough to find that spot that sends fireworks flashing in Dean's head.

When Sam comes, Dean fists his own cock hard and follows his brother over the edge.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Maneuvering Sam back to the motel after they clean up is an adventure in itself. Sam's not just drunk now, he's exhausted—fucked himself out, apparently, and Dean feels warm satisfaction at the hot, aching throb in his ass that proves it.

But Sam is all sleepy compliance when they finally get back, and Dean goes through the routine without annoyance, makes Sam drink down a tall glass of water as Dean helps him out of his pants and all those shirts.

He coaxes Sam into lying down on his side, then strips down to his boxers himself and crawls into bed beside him. Barely conscious, Sam shifts in close and pulls Dean against him.

Dean tucks his head under his brother's chin and thinks that, just maybe, tonight he can sleep without nightmares.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He's already awake when Sam's eyes open, because he's been watching his brother with careful anticipation. He knows Sam will need a whole lot of reassuring when he wakes up.

No one can guilt like his Sammy.

"Oh god," Sam whispers when he catches sight of Dean, eyes darting down in the direction of Dean's throat and the dark spread of bruises there as Sam tries to scoot away across the mattress.

"Hey-hey-hey," says Dean, getting hold of Sam's hands and threading their fingers together. He brushes his thumbs back and forth along Sam's palms in a soothing gesture. "Dude, calm down."

"Calm down?" Sam bites out, tone disbelieving. "After what I did to you last night, you're telling me to calm down."

"Come on, Sammy, we both know I was asking for it." Dean means literally, but Sam just scoffs.

"Right. Sure. Thanks for the out, dude, but I'm not really a blame-the-victim sort of guy."

"Hey," says Dean and waits for Sam's eyes to stop darting around the room. When Sam finally settles his gaze back where it belongs (back on _him_ ) Dean says, "Do I look like a victim to you?"

Sam's eyes flicker to his throat again, an awkward mix of guilt and heat clouding his eyes as he swallows.

Dean gives a squeeze where he still has Sam's hands clasped in his own and says, "Tell me the truth, Sam. How long have you wanted to fuck me?"

"I don't know," Sam says with a self-conscious frown.

Dean shifts stealthily closer as he asks, "But you _did_ want to fuck me."

"Yeah," Sam admits.

Closer still, and now he's right in Sam's space, almost kissing.

"Do you want to fuck me now?" he asks.

"Yes," Sam breathes, and it's a guilty, needy whisper.

Dean lets the admission hang there in the air between them for a moment. It warms his heart and his cock, makes his chest feel tight with emotion, with the satisfied pulse of being needed, wanted, loved.

"Good," says Dean, raising one hand to trace a finger distractedly along Sam's lower lip. "Because I want to do that again."

" _Fuck_ , Dean," Sam whispers, and surges forward to kiss him.

Dean lets himself be manhandled onto his back and spreads his legs to let Sam press against him where it counts.

"Love you, Sammy," he whispers.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The next time he sees Ruby, Dean's got her knife in his hand and a cruel smile on his face.

"It must kill you, knowing how expendable you were," he says. "Knowing that everything you want to be to him, he's already got." He takes a step closer and feels his smile widen as he adds, "Knowing it's me he's fucking and not you."

She shrieks and lunges at him, too distracted by rage to notice the knife until it's buried in her throat.

Sam is edgy but stubbornly pretending not to be worried when Dean meets him back at the car. "Where have you been, Dean?" he asks, eyes a sliver too wide.

"Nowhere important," says Dean, stepping in close. "Did you miss me?"

Sam kisses him, harder and deeper than necessary, and it's all the 'yes' that Dean needs.


End file.
